


Definitely Worth It

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:15:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what Greg says, he most certainly <i>is</i> making eyes at Mycroft. In 221B. And Sherlock is having none of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Definitely Worth It

Mycroft has barely set one foot in 221B when Sherlock’s scathing voice carries across from the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?”

“Merely inspecting your new place, dear brother.”

“Get out.”

The tip of Mycroft’s umbrella makes a tapping noise against the hard wooden floor as he strides over to where Sherlock sits, peering into his microscope.

“I see you and the good doctor are making an effort to integrate your lifestyles,” Mycroft remarks mildly. He risks a glance into the fridge and then closes it. Perhaps not as much of an effort as he initially thought, then. “I’m not sure he or your landlady would agree with the disembodied limbs sitting next to the ham, though.”

Sherlock ignores Mycroft in favour of studying a new slide.

“Eyeballs in the microwave again, Sherlock? Mummy was so appalled last time you conducted a similar experiment. Put her off microwaving leftovers for a whole month, I recall.”

“If you insist on being here, stop pacing around. You’re pissing me off.”

Mycroft wanders into the living room, having seen enough of the kitchen—or rather, body parts—for his visit. He makes a beeline for the dark, leather chair almost opposite the kitchen and sinks into it. At least this way, he can still see Sherlock and survey his surroundings at the same time. It also means that when DI Gregory Lestrade bounds up the stairs and opens the door with Sherlock’s name on his lips, Mycroft is in a prime position to see the way the detective’s expression changes from frustration to surprise to unbridled joy.

“Hello, Gregory.”

“Oh, didn’t expect to see you here, Mycroft! Where’s Sher—”

“—if you don’t have a fascinating murder for me, get out. I don’t need you _and_ Mycroft here at the same time.”

“Ah, there he is. Good afternoon to you too, sunshine!” Greg pokes his head into the kitchen and is given a derisive look for his efforts. With a laugh, he turns around and makes himself comfortable in the chair opposite Mycroft. “So, come to check out the new place, have you?”

“Yes. Much better than the filthy bedsit on Montague Street.”

“Give it a week and it will look the same, I reckon.” Greg beckons Mycroft closer to him, eyes brimming with mirth and a boyish smile playing on his lips. He, too, leans forward, and in a hushed tone as if he were telling a secret, he says, “Donovan already found eyeballs in the microwave last night. She was not amused.”

Mycroft almost snorts. Greg grins broadly.

“I believe I counted at least four toes and a hand in the refrigerator,” Mycroft replies in the same hushed tone.   

“Better than the time we found a foot soaking in the bathtub, I suppose.”

“A particularly malodorous case of foot odour, that was.” 

Greg catches Mycroft’s solemn gaze and then bursts out in laughter—Greg laughs heartily, clutching at his sides, and Mycroft chuckles in a more restrained fashion, nostrils flaring every time he suppresses a laugh that threatens to bubble forth.

Sherlock huffs. “I suppose you’d like some tea and biscuits to accompany your idle gossip, too.”

“Thanks Sherlock. Biscuits would be lovely,” Greg responds cheekily, but his eyes remain fixed on Mycroft’s.  

“Sod off.” After a moment’s pause, Sherlock adds, “And stop making eyes at my brother. It’s revolting.”

It’s Greg’s turn to make an undignified noise. He turns around with such force and speed he thinks he may have torn a seam in his suit.

“I—what— _eyes_? At Mycroft?”

Sherlock grunts in affirmative, still keeping his gaze trained on the specimen under his microscope lens.

“I’m not even—how can you—?”

“Do try to complete at least one of your sentences, Inspector. Yes, you _are_ staring. That dumb smile on Mycroft’s face wouldn’t be there otherwise. It only appears when he talks to you.”

“Wait, what?”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Greg huffs and turns back in his chair, only to find the seat opposite him very empty.

Mycroft is already at the door, pointedly facing away from Greg as he says, “Well, back to work. I hope you don’t mind, Gregory. Good afternoon.”

“Good riddance,” Sherlock mutters.

“Wait, Mycroft!” Greg jumps out of his chair, hitting his leg against the small round table in his frantic rush to follow after Mycroft. “Of all of the bloody, fucking things,” he hisses, massaging the tender flesh above his knee. 

“Chasing after him, really, Lestrade?” Sherlock has finally looked away from his experiment, choosing instead to watch on with mild amusement.

“Fuck off. I’ll collect my badge later. Badges, actually. Don’t think I haven’t been missing them!”

Greg makes it out of 221B in time to see Mycroft entering one of his nondescript black cars. Well, it’s now or never, Greg thinks as he propels himself into the open door. And right into Mycroft’s side.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Greg manages between short gulps of air.

“Gregory? For goodness’ sake, what do you think you’re doing? One of my men could have taken you out!” The sudden shift from surprise to anger is evident on his face as well as in his voice.

“Just had to—had to verify something.” Greg winces at the jolt of pain that shoots down his already sore leg. He’s really too old to subject his poor knees to racing up and down stairs and barrelling into cars. Cars with a very angry Mycroft Holmes inside. No, that would have to be remedied immediately. “Hit my leg on Sherlock’s sodding table. Might have to go back and arrest it for assaulting an officer of the law.”

Mycroft’s lips twitch. Greg watches earnestly, waiting. Eventually, the frown on Mycroft’s face is replaced with an endearing smile; his soft laughter fills the car.

 _Oh_. So _that’s_ the smile Sherlock was talking about. And it’s bloody brilliant. Infectious, too, if the smile on his own face is any indication. Greg shuffles closer, nudging Mycroft’s side with his elbow. Mycroft stills, and then relaxes visibly.

“So… that smile is just for me, huh?”

“Do shut up, Gregory.”

“Nope. Never going to let you live this one down.”

“…I hope that leg of yours hurts terribly.”

“Oh, it does. And it’s definitely worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's 6am and I blame all mistakes on my need for sleep. Good night/morning. 
> 
> (And this is rather belated, but a week ago I made a [writing tumblr](http://ivefoundmygoldfish.tumblr.com) for all of my Sherlock stuff—complete and WIPs—so if you're interested, please check it out! :D)


End file.
